In the hour after supper, our family drifted toward the living room as if summoned by invisible cords. My sister, younger by a year but always ahead, arrived first and claimed the edge of the straw mat nearest the lacquered crucifix. Mother and Father followed, the hush of their steps filling the house with a kind of expectant gravity. Even Brother, who often vanished into the neighbours' backyard until the sky turned bruise-blue, answered the call, sliding in beside me without a word.

The living room was small and square, papered with old calendars and family photos held up by thumbtacks. The only window faced the garden, its screen patched by careful hands, the frame warped from too many seasons of rain. Tonight, as every night, the air carried the sweet aftertaste of incense and the faint, metallic twang of spent kerosene from the shrine lamp by the TV. Mother set the rhythm by smoothing the mat, then crossing herself, knuckles crisp against her brow. Father knelt, bones popping audibly, but made no complaint.

"Rosary," Mother said, though she never needed to.

The click of beads filled the room, first from Mother, then echoed by the rest of us. My fingers still fumbled the transitions—creed to paternoster, glory be to hail Mary—but I kept pace, afraid to lag and draw a glance from Father. The opening prayers spooled out, familiar and comforting, until the ache in my knees was no longer a discomfort but a reassurance: pain as proof of presence, of being counted among the living.

By the third decade, Sister's voice grew dreamy, her syllables slurring in the heat. Brother's head lolled back, eyelids at half-mast, but his lips kept moving—he could pray in his sleep and sometimes did. Mother carried the recitation with a clear, measured cadence, her thumb rubbing the worn cross at the end of the beads until it shone. I tried to mirror her focus, but my mind roamed the dark corners of the room, mapping the pattern of cracks in the ceiling plaster or counting the ants trailing across the baseboard.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour—" The last word hung in the air as the front gate banged, the metal protesting like an old man's back. Father's jaw flexed, but he said nothing, just drew a deeper breath and carried the prayer forward. Mother finished the decade and paused, raising her chin toward the window as if she could see through the mosquito mesh.

Outside, the village had settled into its nighttime habits: radio voices drifting from distant houses, the slap of a paddle against the river, a stray dog barking at some trespass only it perceived. The night pressed close to the window, made thick by the humidity that never quite left. A slow breeze tickled the banana trees, their shadows writhing on the wall like silent parishioners at an open-air Mass.

When we finished the last Hail Holy Queen, Mother leaned back, rolling her shoulders as if to shed the weight of the day. She blew out the altar candle with a practiced puff, sending a spiral of smoke into the dim.

"Go put the books away," she told me, her voice softer now, the authority softened by pride.

I stacked the prayer books—some with pages loose and margins annotated in pencil—and set them atop the TV. The static hum from the old set buzzed faintly through the bindings. Sister trailed me, dragging her feet to stretch the moment before she would be ordered to brush her teeth. Brother was already gone, his presence a shape in the air more than a body.

Father rose last, stretching his legs with a sigh that was more relief than fatigue. He looked out the window, scanning the dark as if expecting an answer to a question he hadn't voiced. I watched the flicker of the last candle reflected in his glasses, the flame doubling and tripling, then going out.

No one noticed as I slipped out the back door. It was an old habit: the house grew too full after prayers, and the outside world felt emptier, more mine. I padded through the threshold in bare feet, the concrete cool and slightly slick underfoot, then onto the tamped-earth path that led to the garden.

The night air slapped my cheeks, sharp with the wet sweetness of rotting fruit and the sharper note of jasmine near the fence. Above, the sky was a velvet dome, the stars poked through like a sieve for prayers. I shivered, partly from the sudden chill and partly from the sense of being very small and very alone.

The garden was no more than three banana plants, a row of scrubby basil, and the stone altar built by my grandfather's hands. The altar stood at the back, away from the reach of the house lights, its top flat as a chopping block. The statue of Mary perched there, chipped at the nose and faded to the colour of stale bread, but she still held her palms open in invitation. Someone—a neighbour's child, maybe—had tucked a wilted marigold behind her ear. I liked her better this way, adorned and approachable, less distant than the marble saints inside the church.

A small wooden stool waited beside the altar. It was barely tall enough to keep my knees from my chest, but it was enough to lift me off the wet ground. I sat, tucking my feet beneath me, and listened to the world.

The garden was loud in its own way: the chorus of crickets, the sighing of bamboo, the faint ripple of river water against the embankment. Above these sounds, the church bell struck a single note, already dampened by the late hour. Somewhere across the field, I heard the low drone of a generator and, behind that, the staccato laughter of a woman on her way home.

I looked up, searching for the three-pointed triangle that Mother called the Fisherman's Net. It was there, just above the roofline, and next to it the thin streak of falling light from a satellite or a far-off plane. I named the constellations aloud, the way Father had taught me, checking them off in order: the Net, the Pig's Tail, the Canoe. I made a game of it, betting myself how quickly I could find the next.

The garden smelled of incense—Mother had burned two sticks at the altar after lunch, a bribe to ensure good weather for the week's fishing. The scent clung to the air, mixing with the funk of mud and decaying leaves. I liked the way the smoke wound around my face, lingering in my hair even after I went back inside.

From the house, I could see the yellow eye of the kitchen light and the flicker of a candle at the family altar. Through the window, Sister's silhouette passed back and forth as she washed her hands. Sometimes she glanced outside, but tonight she seemed fixed on her reflection in the glass, making faces in the soft glow.

I straightened my back, copying the posture of the priests at Mass, and folded my hands in my lap. I didn't know if anyone—God or Mary or the saints—could hear prayers whispered outside the approved hours, but I tried anyway. I thanked them for the food, for the warm bed, for the fact that the floods had not come early this year. Then, because I'd heard it was better to be specific, I asked that my father's net catch more fish tomorrow, and that my brother not get caught sneaking fermented plums from the old woman's garden. For myself, I asked only that the nightmares stay away, or at least wait until dawn.

I finished the prayer, then opened my eyes and looked up again. The stars seemed closer now, as if they'd drawn near to eavesdrop on my petition. I counted them—one, two, twenty, more—and felt a calm settle over me, the noise of the world ebbing into a gentle hush.

A final gust of wind swept the garden, rattling the banana leaves and making the statue's shadow dance along the fence. For a moment, it looked as if Mary had bowed her head in answer. I smiled, feeling foolish but also less alone.

The crickets started up again, loud and relentless, and the generator hummed its reply. I stood, brushed the dirt from my knees, and bowed to the statue before heading back toward the house.

At the threshold, I paused and glanced over my shoulder, half-hoping for a sign, a flicker, something. Instead, I saw only the stone altar, the battered statue, and the blank, open sky.

But that was enough. I slipped inside, leaving the night to its own prayers.

It was not the next night, but the one after, when the air thickened with the heat that signalled a coming storm. I lay on my mat, listening to the ceiling fan fight the inertia of old dust, and felt the pressure build behind my eyes—a heaviness that would not let me sleep. My sister snored, a delicate whistle in and out, while Brother mumbled through the script of some forgotten dream. Father's cough shook the thin walls in bursts, and outside, the dogs barked at something neither man nor ghost.

I waited until the house settled into its proper silence, then slipped out the back door again, this time with an urgency I could not name. The night garden had changed in the span of two days. The banana leaves, slick with new rain, drooped like wilted flags. The incense sticks on the altar were burned down to nubs, and the marigold behind Mary's ear had browned and fallen. Even the air tasted different—metallic and expectant, as if the garden had swallowed a secret and was waiting to exhale.

I sat on the stool, drawing my knees to my chest, and scanned the sky for the Fisherman's Net. The stars were muted behind a scum of clouds, their outlines harder to find. I leaned back, tilting my head until the world inverted and I felt as if I might slip free of the earth altogether. My eyes adjusted to the dark, mapping the spaces where the clouds broke, the starlight weak but persistent.

It happened all at once and also not at all. One moment, the sky was just the sky; the next, a seam in the clouds ripped open, and something impossible spilled out. At first, I thought it was the moon, veiled by haze, but then the glow expanded, stretching wide across the black. The light pulsed, blue and white, moving with a rhythm more like breathing than wind. In the centre, a figure shimmered—tall, robed, with arms spread in welcome or warning, I could not tell which.

My heart dropped into my stomach. The hairs on my neck stood up, and my hands went cold and useless. I blinked hard, but the vision only sharpened. The woman—because it was a woman, unmistakably so—floated above the village, her gown rippling in slow motion, her veil trailing behind like a second set of wings. She looked nothing like the cheap plaster Mary on our altar, or the glossy ladies in the church posters. This one was brighter, clearer, and absolutely alive.

I tried to breathe, but the air seemed to catch in my throat. My chest buzzed with a fear so intense it emptied my mind of everything but the need to watch, to memorise every movement. I made the sign of the cross, just as the priests did, but my fingers tangled, and I had to start over. The apparition moved across the sky, not walking, not flying, but gliding on a wind only she could feel. With each shift, the blue of her robe deepened, edged in a faint silver that reminded me of the river under starlight.

Around me, the garden stilled. The crickets, usually so relentless, cut off mid-phrase. The dogs in the distance stopped barking. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, the only sound my own panicked pulse hammering in my ears. The woman in the sky slowed, then paused, hovering directly over the banana trees. For a split second, her head turned. I swear she looked straight at me.

My body locked in place, every muscle trembling. The urge to run, to wake Mother and Father, gnawed at the base of my skull, but I could not move. This was not a thing for sharing. It belonged to me alone, the way a secret does, and I knew—without knowing how—that to call out would break the spell, or worse, make it never have happened at all.

The figure stretched her arms wider, her palms facing down as if blessing the ground, the garden, the trembling boy on the stool. A feeling passed through me, first like a needle in the chest, then a flood of warmth that settled deep in my bones. It was love, or something like it, but sharper, more urgent. I felt, for a single moment, both completely safe and dangerously exposed.

The clouds shifted again, closing around the apparition like a fist. The blue and white faded to grey, then to nothing. The stars reappeared, blinking as if waking from a long nap. The spell broke, and the world restarted: a single frog croaked, then another, and the crickets picked up their hymn right where they'd left off.

I sat there, pulse racing, not sure what I'd seen, or what I was supposed to do about it. My legs tingled from the cold, my hands clenched so tight the fingernails had left half-moons in my palms. I pressed both hands to my chest, right over the spot where the medallion lay hidden under my shirt, and waited for my breath to steady.

The statue of Mary on the altar stared past me, blank and unfazed. I wondered if she'd ever seen the real thing, or if plaster saints envied the ones who could leave their pedestals and dance in the sky.

The thought made me laugh, a short, shaky burst, and the sound startled a gecko from its hiding place on the fence. It skittered up the bamboo, then vanished.

I stood, legs wobbly, and bowed to the stone altar, just in case. Then I stumbled back to the house, one hand always pressed to the medallion, as if I could anchor myself to its cold certainty.

Inside, the fan still hummed, and my sister's snores marked the rhythm of an untroubled sleep. I curled up on my mat and stared at the ceiling until the morning came, afraid that if I closed my eyes, I'd miss something. Or worse—that it would all turn out to be a dream, and I'd wake up to find the sky empty and ordinary once more.

I stayed rooted to the stool long after the sky stitched itself back together, not trusting my legs to carry me inside. A gust of air, cooler than before, brushed my face and dried the sweat on my brow. My skin prickled, as if the very memory of the vision had left a residue—something I could not brush away no matter how many times I wiped my palms on my shorts.

The figure was gone, but I could trace its outline on the backs of my eyelids: blue and white burning through the night like the afterimage of lightning. My chest ached with something that was not quite joy nor fear. It was a feeling I could only compare to the one time I almost drowned in the river—pulled down, certain I'd vanish, and then suddenly, blessedly, rising into the air.

The medallion beneath my shirt, a little oval of tin stamped with a lady's face, had warmed to my skin. I fished it out and pressed it flat against my lips. The taste was bitter, but the gesture felt right. I whispered, "Amen," without meaning to, the syllable rising unbidden, an offering to whatever was still out there listening.

The world stayed hushed, like the pause between the end of one Mass and the beginning of the next. I closed my eyes and breathed deep, letting the last threads of incense and rain drift through me. My shoulders, so tight they'd crept up toward my ears, began to loosen, and the knot in my stomach unwound a little, replaced by a slow, even rhythm: in, out, in, out.

Somewhere beyond the garden, the bamboo leaves started to rustle again. The crickets tested the silence, tentative at first, then bolder. A night bird called, lonely and sharp, and I thought of the woman in the sky—how she'd made the whole village hers with a single glance. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen the night so alive, so thick with promise.

A yellow glow flickered in the kitchen window. Mother's silhouette moved through it, backlit by the weak flame of the altar candle she always relit before bed. I watched her for a while, comforted by her shape and the routine of her movements. Even after all I'd seen, it was the small, everyday gestures that still seemed holy: a hand smoothing the tablecloth, a cup of water poured with care, the way she paused to bow her head when she passed the statue by the door.

I was still there, wrapped in my own silence, when her voice floated out to the garden.

"Tam? Why are you still outside?" she asked, not scolding but curious, as if she half-expected my answer to be worth hearing.

I turned, not trusting myself to speak, afraid my voice would betray the trembling inside me. I watched her in the soft light, her hair caught up in a loose knot, the lines of her face softened by shadow. For a moment, I wanted to tell her everything—how the sky had cracked open, how the blue and white woman had danced for me, how I felt as if I'd been lifted above the world and set back down changed.

But I did not speak. I tucked the vision into the small, dark place inside me where I kept my best secrets, the ones too fragile to survive the air. I smiled, hoping it looked normal, and raised my hand in a wave.

"Coming," I said, voice small but steady.

She nodded and stepped back inside, letting the curtain fall behind her. I listened to her footsteps cross the kitchen floor, then fade into the hush of the house.

For a while, I sat with my secret, hands clasped around the medallion, letting the night settle over me. I no longer felt afraid of the dark, or of the silence that followed it. The vision had filled me with a sense of being very small, but also, somehow, very important—a single breath in a great, living body. I wanted to hold onto that feeling, to let it carry me through the days when I doubted or forgot.

When I finally stood and brushed the dirt from my shins, I took one last look at the sky. The stars, ordinary again, seemed to blink at me with a kind of mischief. The banana leaves, still dripping from the rain, reflected bits of moonlight in tiny, trembling arcs. The statue of Mary remained where it always had, chipped and silent, but I thought I saw the marigold tucked behind her ear glow faintly in the dark.

I walked back to the house, not rushing, not afraid. With every step, the ground felt more solid beneath me, the air less heavy. The door clicked shut behind me, and I slid into bed, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I lay awake, tracing circles on the medallion with my thumb, replaying the vision over and over in my mind until it became less a memory than a part of me—a story I could tell myself, if not anyone else.

In the quiet, just before sleep, I wondered if I would see her again, or if the sky would ever offer up another miracle. But even if it never did, I knew I would never look at the stars the same way. I belonged to them now, and they to me.

That night, for the first time in a long while, I dreamed only of light.